Page 13 of Lady Willa's Divinely Wicked Vicar
“Aye, ma’am. Come, Miss Miranda.”
“And you, Lord Jerman,” declared the Mama of Miranda, “will do as you must for my daughter. Tomorrow at nine. In the yellow drawing room. Be there.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“Well,” said Wills, after the four of them had departed and closed the door behind them. “Miss Miranda Pendergast is about to be engaged.”
“And Lord Jerman will have a bride. God help her.”
“You know him?” Wills asked him.
“I do. He’s not the sort of man to whom a young woman wants to be shackled.”
“And not the way to go about the engagement, either.”
Her words had him frowning. At once, he stood, straightened his formal frock coat, shot his cuffs and extended his hand to help her up. “Come. Stand. This is no way to go about any relationship. And I owe you a huge apology.”
“Do not do that.” The moment she gained her feet, she dropped his hand. Her whole body—willful entity—ached to have his arms around her once more. “This is as much my fault.”I wanted this. Had no idea I could respond so irrationally.
“I owe you that and more.” He watched her as she straightened her bodice and smoothed her skirts. “I must now do as Jerman and pro—”
“No! Don’t say it! Don’t.” She put two fingers to his marvelous lips. “You will hex us. Certainly yourself. I couldn’t bear it. Reverend Compton, sir,” she said and drew away from him, finding her dignity again, “please do not say that word.”
He winced and ran two hands through his hair. “We have kissed.”
And enjoyed it.
“We have caressed.”
And loved it.
“We have laid down together.”
“And no one will ever know.”
“Lady Willa—”
Hating his sudden formality, she frowned. But she had to go on, didn’t she? She pulled herself up to her full commanding persona, the daughter of an earl, a woman of education and means—and she extended her hand to him. “We are friends.”
“My lady, to me you are more—”
“Wills. My friends call me Wills.” She put a palm to her aching heart. It was breaking that friends was all they’d ever be, she and the dashing, daring, darling Vicar of St. Andrews in the Fields.
He clasped her hand and in a solemn voice she was certain he must use at funerals, he said, “Wills. This curse is a hoax. And I will prove it to you.”
She did revere this charming man of God. But he could not disprove her belief and she had to maintain her distance so as not to hurt him. “Reverend Compton—”
“Charlie. My friends call me Charlie. My father. My n’er do well brother. I am known even to…” He pointed to the ceiling. “Himas Charlie.”
“My friend,” she said and wanted to cry. “Charlie, you must give up this idea. This was…a time out of mind. You will find another woman.”
He took her in his arms and once more she felt the precision of how they fit together in body and perhaps, even, in soul. “No. I want you, Wills. Reckless, irrational as it sounds, I have never felt the need to be with any woman like I do with you. I need to laugh with you, sigh with you, love with you.”
She pulled away to engrave upon her memory the dark handsome creature who had brought such light and gaiety into her dull, grey life. “These moments here must not color your thinking.”
He lifted her chin with two fingers. “You must realize that I held you and kissed you and the world did not fall apart, Wills.”
“That changes nothing, Charlie.”
